Ag Man

So here we are again. Back in the trenches. Swiping, matching, emotionally investing in people who say things like “I don’t send dick pics” (spoiler: they always do) and have Snapchat handles that scream hot nerd energy. Because clearly, I love to suffer.

I matched with Ag Man twice before anything ever came from it. We chatted for a bit and then swapped Snapchats because nothing says modern romance like snapchat does. He was hot in a might have downs syndrome kind of way but he had this one photo on his dating profile that made me question my life choices and my need for pants. The man works out, clearly takes care of himself and based on his snap handle, he’s also a bit of a nerd.

He didn’t text me constantly, which I am learning is a good thing. It means he’s not clingy. I later found out it meant he’s busy texting three other girls, but hey, I was talking to other people too. Let’s rewind. I told him my birthday had just passed, two days ago, mind you. His response? A blank stare followed by a theatrical “Awww man, if I’d known I would have totally bought you a present.” Awww man you did know, we had a conversation about our birthdays being only a few days apart. 

He liked to call me “sweet cakes.” I know, I know, please don't judge. But we had this running joke about cake layers, so I let it slide. If a red flag had called me that, I’d have dry heaved on the spot. But this one was cheeky, and charming. A dangerous combination. The kind of man who’ll make you laugh and then casually ruin your life.

Our first date was technically three dates in one night because he had a “three date rule” but neither of us wanted to wait. We drank overpriced liquor at a cocktail bar, then Italian for dinner and then back to his place for some good old-fashioned “Netflix and chill.” And yes, we chilled. So hard I got a UTI.

And then there was that lunch break. Just a casual midday "oops-I-fell-on-your-dick" moment. Because nothing screams sexual spontaneity like scheduling it between meetings. Things were great we talked long term and then when I told him I thought he was cool and was keen to see where this was going, he responded with “I need time to process that.” Process what mate? He later replied with “You can have full access to me if all you want to do is fuck.” Cool bro, I turned down a weekend with Whiplash for you and I know that would have been a good time. Go back to playing on the farm loser.

Now, let’s talk about the D. Because lord help me, the man was packing. I’m talking forearm-sized. Anatomically concerning. He couldn’t put it all in without me wincing like someone just hit me in the shin with a scooter. I had to stop him like, “Sir, I have a teeny tiny vaginee. Respectfully, please stand down.” Truth be told, I liked his cock more than I liked him. And that says a lot. The term cockstruck feels painfully accurate here.

In the end, the guy was a walking red flag in farmers clothing. He made me laugh, made me cry, gave me a UTI, and just enough serotonin to ignore the glaring signs that he was not the one.